Political Reasons
by RobertaWickham
Summary: When Enjolras gets trailed by a police spy on his way to drop off contraband at Courfeyrac's apartment late at night, they need to manufacture an innocent reason for his presence there. Courfeyrac/Enjolras.


Inspired by a prompt from AMarguerite for Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and pretending to be married/fake dating.

* * *

It was one o'clock in the morning when Courfeyrac awoke to a sharp rapping on his door.

Enjolras was there, pamphlets and cartridges in tow. Courfeyrac, unsurprised, took the contraband to his usual hiding place for such things, waving Enjolras in with a lazy sweep of his hand. His Rue de la Verrerie apartment, which he had taken for political reasons, was convenient for a great many purposes, including storing supplies.

He took in the tense set of Enjolras's shoulders, the way Enjolras sat down heavily on the nearest chair. "How was it?"

"Well enough." Enjolras rubbed his forehead.

"It's foolishness to lie to me," Courfeyrac said, shaking his head. "What happened? Did Perrot—"

"Perrot was as usual." Enjolras gave him the ghost of a smile. "Nothing happened, exactly."

"Something happened inexactly, then?"

"Yes," said Enjolras, "and you needn't prod me for it—I was going to tell you. As I left the meeting, I feared I was being followed."

Courfeyrac dug his nails into his palms. "Followed. A police spy, you mean?"

"Yes. I went this way and that to shake him off, changed my course many times, slipped into shadows and waited. I _think_ I succeeded."

Courfeyrac could not miss the uncertainty in Enjolras's voice; it sounded much too alien there to go unnoticed. He rose and went to the window, opened it, and leaned outside with practiced casualness.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man lounging nonchalantly against a streetlamp. Courfeyrac didn't dare fix his gaze on the man, not wanting to take the risk of meeting his eyes. He simply stared into the distance, keeping the man in the side of his vision, breathing in and breathing out. The man didn't move; he kept his seemingly lackadaisical pose as if his feet had been nailed in place.

After a long moment, Courfeyrac pulled his torso back within the room, and closed the window. "I hate to tell you this, but you did not. Succeed, I mean. The hound stuck to your trail, and is panting hungrily outside."

Enjolras pressed his hand to his forehead again. "I hoped I had not brought a spy to your doorstep."

Courfeyrac smiled brightly. "It is no trouble," he said. "I am sure we can deal with him. Do you think he knows anything?"

"Knows? No. Suspects, yes—that's why he followed me rather than simply apprehending me, either at my meeting with Perrot, or now. If he _knew_ we were trafficking in contraband—well, he and his friends could have arrested me, Perrot, and all of our compatriots at the meeting. There were ten of us. I suppose he could be playing a longer game, waiting for us to lead him to others—but when he could arrest ten at one go?" Enjolras shook his head.

"Hmm." Courfeyrac considered this. "He may be willing to believe you're here for a social visit, after all. Perhaps we could encourage him in that?"

"It's an odd hour for such a call, and as I said, I took a roundabout path to get here, to shake off any spies. Since I failed, he now knows I wished to avoid detection." Enjolras's mouth twisted. "I need an innocent reason for being furtive, a contradiction in terms."

"An innocent reason—or perhaps, a differently guilty one."

Enjolras looked at him in silent puzzlement.

"My friend," said Courfeyrac, grinning, thrilled at the wonderfully impossible idea that had just coalesced in his mind, "there are reasons besides revolution why a man might furtively visit another man, in the dead of the night. Reasons which, though legal, are decidedly improper, and may thus require secrecy."

Enjolras started, his eyes widening. "Forgive me, I only tease," Courfeyrac said, feeling a twinge of guilt.

"No," Enjolras said. He frowned, looking earnest and thoughtful, and Courfeyrac's regret mounted. Enjolras was the last man on earth to require protection; nevertheless, absurdly, something about his abstraction and austerity and unworldliness roused all Courfeyrac's chivalry, and made the thought of wounding him seem unbearable. But Enjolras simply went on, "That would be a reasonable pretext for my presence here—if…"

He turned to Courfeyrac, lower lip gripped between his teeth.

Courfeyrac took a breath. "If?" Wonderfully impossible, yet perfectly practical, dancing on the edge between ethereal wish and earthy reality. Enjolras would not agree, surely. He would not, he—

"I'm not certain how we should communicate to our spy that this is why I'm here," said Enjolras.

"That's easily accomplished," Courfeyrac said, with a forced lightness. "The curtains are drawn, the candles are bright—through the window, our friend can see any compromising performances we wish to stage for him, with no difficulty at all."

"Ah. Well. That solves the logistical problem, then. That is, if..." Enjolras broke off, turning ever so slightly pink. "If you are truly and completely willing, Courfeyrac. I would not demand such a thing of you—better for us to take our chances with the spy, than for me to coerce you so."

Oh, the poor dear idiot. Courfeyrac had to bite back his bark of laughter. Enjolras was being entirely conscientious, entirely correct. It would not do to scorn that, even if the idea of Courfeyrac being unwilling to touch him was ludicrous. "I am willing." Courfeyrac took Enjolras's arm and steered him to the window. "The question is, are you?"

The nearby candle on the shelf painted the curve of Enjolras's throat in cream and gold as he spoke. "Yes."

For a moment Courfeyrac floundered. He had not, in fact, expected this to come to fruition—had not expected that he would have to _act_ rather than simply insinuate and smirk.

He rallied himself, and tugged on Enjolras's hand, bringing him nearer still. Feeling foolish—and pushing the feeling aside—he let his hands travel up to the back of Enjolras's neck, and twine themselves in his hair.

Not to be outdone, Enjolras put his arm around Courfeyrac's waist, with an irritating impassivity.

Oh, Enjolras's calmness made _sense_, Courfeyrac supposed. After all, Courfeyrac was rather prone to flinging himself on his friends. Enjolras was used to being physically close to him. There was no need to expect, from Enjolras, the ragged breath or red cheeks of a new mistress when she pressed up to him for the first time.

But sense or not, it irked him, and Courfeyrac was always one to rise to a challenge. _So to speak_, he told himself with an inward grin at his own puerile joke.

"This is a good start, but not enough for our friend the _mouchard_. We will have to go further to complete this ruse—with your permission, that is," Courfeyrac murmured.

Enjolras nodded, expressionless. _We will see how long_ that _lasts,_ Courfeyrac vowed to himself, and leaned forward, making as if to kiss Enjolras on the mouth, but veering away at the last moment to graze his cheek instead.

Enjolras's breathing paused for a moment. A very brief moment, but it was enough: it was an irregularity, it betrayed excitement. Courfeyrac pulled back to look Enjolras in the face, knowing that he himself must look smug and mocking. "Like a satisfied cat," Combeferre had once told him. (And how would Combeferre even know? He'd never kept a cat. The man couldn't keep a houseplant. He had tried keeping violets once, and nearly killed them through some gruesome experiment— Prouvaire had been the one to rescue them, tutting about Combeferre's heartlessness.)

For his part, Enjolras looked perplexed, yet rebellious, with furrowed brow and clenched jaw. It was an expression Courfeyrac knew well: he had often seen it on Enjolras, in response to his own jibes. Enjolras had no natural instinct for teasing, but he could sense when Courfeyrac was doing it. Since he had entirely too much spirit to take it lying down, he would clumsily try to fight back in kind, much to Courfeyrac's entertainment.

Courfeyrac watched as the confusion resolved into decision. Enjolras's chin went up, his lips firmed into a straight line and his eyes narrowed. He pulled Courfeyrac flush up against him, holding Courfeyrac in place with slim, wiry arms, and bowed his head so his mouth was at Courfeyrac's ear. "Are you trying to discomfit me?"

His voice was deep and stern, and Courfeyrac shivered in spite of himself. "Do you feel discomfited?"

"Indeed not," retorted Enjolras, his breath ruffling Courfeyrac's hair. "I am perfectly at ease." His voice was a maddening blend of defiance and complacence and provocation. Courfeyrac took the bait. He moved his hands down to Enjolras's neck, undoing his cravat and collar, and bent his head to kiss the hollow of his throat. Raising his chin, he met Enjolras's eyes.

Enjolras gave no word or look of protest; after a second, his hold on Courfeyrac's waist tightened, locking their bodies together as if in a wrestling match, or a scandalous perversion of a waltz. Courfeyrac needed no further encouragement. He bent his head again, kissing his way slowly up Enjolras's neck to his earlobe. His skin was particularly soft, to Courfeyrac's delight. Sensitive, too, judging by the delicious sound that Enjolras made.

The thrill of making Enjolras—_Enjolras_, of all people!—moan with pleasure was too much. Courfeyrac forgot himself. All inhibition, all circumspection, all caution washed away in the flood of triumph.

He kissed along Enjolras's jaw, nipping at him lightly at first, then harder when Enjolras groaned and tilted his head invitingly. Every red mark on Enjolras's skin was a further encouragement, urging him to kiss again with greater force.

But when he reached Enjolras's mouth, Courfeyrac slowed. Deliberately, teasingly, he kissed around Enjolras's lips, just under and just over and just to the side.

With an impatient noise, Enjolras grabbed Courfeyrac's shoulders and pulled him back firmly. Then he pressed his lips to Courfeyrac's.

Of course, he had no idea what to do after that. Courfeyrac stifled a giggle, and took over once more, only to find Enjolras matching him quickly, evidently a fast learner in all respects.

"I trust you did not find that too unpleasant," Courfeyrac said, when he finally drew back for air. "I realize you'd rather be discussing politics, but hopefully this was an acceptable substitute to quarreling over Rousseau."

"It—it has its virtues," Enjolras said, still a bit breathless. Then he gave Courfeyrac a slight smile. "In any case, I have conceded the point regarding Rousseau, so that quarrel has been settled."

"Ah, yes, of course, I remember—I suppose Combeferre talked you round, or was it Prouvaire? Prouvaire talks you round a surprising amount, considering that you two are near-opposites in every respect."

"We are not. We simply approach the same ideal via different paths—and in any case, it was not Prouvaire, nor Combeferre either." Enjolras paused, his lips twitching, before adding, "Don't let this go to your head, but it was you who persuaded me on that score."

"I?" Courfeyrac laughed, genuinely surprised. "My friend, I'm certain I remember each and every time I have ever persuaded you of anything, great or small. In fact, I keep them all written down in a little book, with the precise date and circumstances described. There is no doubt that I would remember such an incident."

"Stop it," Enjolras said, with a short laugh, though in fact Courfeyrac had been only _half_-joking about the book. "You did not persuade me with argument, or rhetoric, or with words at all—or any of your favorite theatrical gestures, for that matter."

"My gestures, as you call them, are effective in making their point, you must admit—not to mention highly amusing, even to you. But then how _did_ I persuade you?" Courfeyrac was truly curious now, though before he had just been talking idly. His vanity, ever alert, sensed that here was food, and wished to dig it up for consumption.

Enjolras looked at him in silence for several seconds before replying. They still had their arms around each other, and their faces were perilously close; the sudden seriousness of the conversation heightened the sense of intimacy. "Your actions," Enjolras finally said. "Your conduct to me, to Bossuet, to Grantaire, to Marius Pontmercy. I suppose you have shown me the possibility and the virtue of...of modeling the Republic in how we treat those particular people who rely on us, as well as in how we serve the nation directly."

Courfeyrac confusedly thought that his vanity would get indigestion if it were fed any more. He pushed that irrelevant notion aside, and concentrated on the important business of kissing Enjolras again.

When they paused for breath again, Enjolras bent to kiss Courfeyrac chastely on the mouth, before pulling further back. "Is the spy still there?"

Courfeyrac had utterly forgotten the wretch who served as the excuse for all this. He began to turn towards the window, but Enjolras turned his face back with a hand under his chin. "If he is there, we don't want him to see us peering out looking for him. Better to seem unconscious of his presence."

"Oh. Yes. Of course."

Enjolras hesitated before saying, "The wisest course would be to continue as we were."

Suppressing a self-satisfied laugh, Courfeyrac murmured, "I always act wisely."

It was a long time, though not nearly long enough in Courfeyrac's opinion, before they broke apart once more.

Enjolras, under the pretext of stretching, tilted his head to the window. "The spy is gone."

Never did Courfeyrac think he would regret the absence of a police agent, but he shrugged philosophically. "Well, then. It's past two in the morning. You might as well sleep here, it's much too late for you to go back." Enjolras nodded his assent. Before turning away, Courfeyrac added slyly, "And one thing has been achieved: the next time you need to store supplies here, you will have an iron-clad excuse for your presence, whatever the hour."

Enjolras smiled, slow and sweet, and Courfeyrac felt that the evening had been a wonderful success.


End file.
